


5 People Who Had Impure Thoughts About James Wilson (And One Who Didn't)

by orphan_account



Series: House Rarepairs [3]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: 5x1, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon-Typical Behavior, Emotional Infidelity, Escapism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Loneliness, Love, M/M, Past Abuse, Rare Pairings, Some Humor, Unrequited Lust, Vignette, i gotta start being nicer to Chase, me a sad-act: but also there is porn, me an intellectual: this is a character study, some kinky stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:14:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23738983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: OVER 18 ONLY.Ever wonder what people really think of you?Six non-linear vignettes of varying length, ranging from angsty as hell to fluffier than a Build-a-Bear convention.
Relationships: Allison Cameron/James Wilson, Eric Foreman/James Wilson, Greg House/James Wilson, Lisa Cuddy/James Wilson, Robert Chase/James Wilson, Stacy Warner/James Wilson, minor Greg House/Robert Chase
Series: House Rarepairs [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1582174
Comments: 4
Kudos: 77





	1. Scruple

**Author's Note:**

> See the beginning of each chapter for pairing and content/trigger warnings if applicable. If it's fluff you seek please skip straight to the final chapter because you won't find it in any of the others!
> 
> Inspired by vanishing_time's Five People Who Made Gregory House Kneel, And One Who Did Not, which according to their notes was inspired by Five People Who Never Screwed Robert Chase, And One Who Did by ishafel. Two amazing works right there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cameron/Wilson. Angst and mildly explicit smut.

House rolls into the conference room at 10:34am, lobbing three files into the centre of the table. As they scatter on impact, Chase makes the first grab, like a salivating dog snapping up a chunk of beef. Cameron slides a blue binder across to Foreman, then takes one for herself.

“39-year-old male, acute onset ataxia and unilateral hearing loss. Clean MRI, no past medical history.” House doesn’t glance at them as he heads towards the kitchenette to bang around with mugs and instant coffee. “But he did lose his pregnant wife in a car accident a couple of months ago. Hey, sick _and_ traumatised - Cameron's perfect man!"

Chase keeps reading. Foreman, she notices, purses his lips a little, in something akin to disgust. It passes quickly, barely registers; these jibes are just white noise now, after all. And Cameron is good at pretending that it doesn’t hurt, even when it really does. Mostly, House’s mean mouth is tolerable because she loves him; sometimes, it’s not, because it reminds her that he _ knows _ that. And yet, he treats her just like anyone else.

And just like that, Cameron is thinking again; a little about how unfair it is, and a lot about the murmurs that have been flying around the hospital lately about House and Wilson. _ Too close for comfort, _ is one that comes up a lot, a benign cliche with heavy implications. _ Too friendly to be just _ friends_, if you know what I mean, _ Nurse Greta said once, with a knowing flick of one well-groomed eyebrow. Cameron’s morals won’t allow her to partake in gossip with people she barely knows, and besides, she doesn’t truly believe that House and Wilson are a secret item. But she does believe that House is in love with Wilson. 

In fact, Cameron believes that much is glaringly obvious. House jerks people around to evoke a rise from them, to see how far he can push; but when he messes with Wilson, it’s like he’s waving his arms in the air for his attention. He laughs at Wilson’s jokes. He cares about Wilson’s opinions. When Cameron sees them together, whether they're eating in the cafeteria or wandering around the corridors exchanging odd banter that no one else understands, House looks lively and content. It’s surreal, and uncanny. Sort of like watching a cadaver reanimate.

God, she wishes House would look at her like that.

As Foreman and Chase start to throw around ideas, Cameron still hasn’t absorbed a single detail. It seems pointless, when House will never approve of her ideas; when he'll never crave her company, never give her - _them -_ a real chance. Perhaps, she muses, he would be more willing to do so if he could see the more vindictive corners of her mind. Especially the ones she seeks refuge within in moments like these; places that feel like they should belong to someone else, places she drifts to when she wants to indulge in fantasies about making House suffer, just like she does. And when she isn’t dealing with reality, her morals can’t restrain her.

Wilson wouldn’t be difficult to seduce - the guy seems to drop his pants for anyone who shows him a little attention - and she wouldn’t be seeking romance. She’d make that clear from the outset. She’d act like casual sex was just the sort of thing she did, and she wouldn’t tell him that her long passed husband was actually her first. She certainly wouldn’t let on that there hadn’t been another since. 

They’d go to her car, or maybe a clinic room after hours. Wilson would mouth at her neck and pop open the buttons on her blouse with one skilled finger, and Cameron would straddle him and grind her heat against his erection through their clothes, crude in her impatience to get on with it. It would be nothing like sex with her husband. They never fucked; they made love. They caressed, exposed, connected. But to make love to Wilson would be to entirely miss the point.

No, this would need to be careless and wanton; maybe a little seedy. It would reek of two people using each other for reasons that it would be impolite and awkward to explore. It wouldn’t need to be good, but it would need to be loud and wild and fierce. Wilson would need to bare his teeth and clutch her hips, slamming himself into her; and Cameron would need to bite his neck until he hissed, twisting her fists in his undone shirt as she howled like a siren just because she could.

Afterwards, she’d put her panties back on, and he would refasten his tie, and their eyes wouldn't meet. Wilson would mumble something about calling her tomorrow even though he would have no intention, and that would suit Cameron just fine, because he would mean nothing to her.

“Cameron? Hey! Cameron!”

She jolts back to attention as a pair of big hands clap in her direction, like she's a wayward puppy. House is looking amused, and a little vengeful. “Stop daydreaming about giving the patient a sponge bath and start diagnosing him.”

She still hasn’t read a word, despite her bowed head, her pretence, and she knows she appears slightly bewildered. She can feel Chase and Foreman’s curious gazes. As evenly as she can manage, she shrugs and says, “could be autoimmune.”

House scoffs, turning away. “Seriously?”

She watches him hobble to the board, his power to wound her suddenly diminished. She’s still half submerged in the fantasy, and she’s only just getting to the best part. She envisions the four of them in another dimension; how Chase’s jaw would touch his knees; how Foreman’s eternal pokerface would collapse; and best of all, how House would immediately not look nearly so clever as she retorted, “did you hear that I screwed Wilson?”


	2. Authority

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cuddy/Wilson. Angst, explicit smut and BDSM.

Cuddy may have been born with impeccable self-sufficiency, or perhaps she developed it to survive the neuroses of her distant, critical mother. She’s never thought about it too much; she’s far too busy for such introspective nonsense. What she does know is that she abhors fragility. She refuses to allow it in herself, and she has no patience for anybody else who walks around with “Take Care Of Me” scrawled in big red letters across their foreheads either.

And then there’s Wilson.

The problem is, he’s so _ good _ at getting it out of her. When he wanders into her office on a bad day - usually for no reason other than his intuition has _ told _ him she’s having a bad day - the sight of his kind, handsome face is all it takes for her to start babbling her frustrations. He listens to her with nods and “hmms” and little flickers of his lips as he rubs his gift for limitless empathy in her face. Once she’s finished dumping her misfortunes into his lap, he speaks a few delicately crafted words, and not only is the lilt of his voice enough to ground her again, but she greedily absorbs everything that leaves his mouth. That’s the worst part: he’s always _ right_. 

And Cuddy resents that, because _ she _ wants to be right. She wants to understand herself and her situation better than he does. She should be the one to lick her wounds, but Wilson’s stupid, soothing tongue is quicker and more skilled than hers. Sometimes, she’ll try to resist his kindness; she’ll patiently insist that she’s fine, then snap at him when he won’t let up. But rather like House, he’ll chip away at her resolve until he gets what he wants: her confidence. Her friendship. Her vulnerability.

Wilson is a beacon of sanity in this breeding ground of chaos somebody decided to call a hospital, and she needs him. It makes Cuddy a little sick, the way she repeatedly finds it so necessary to lay herself bare to him, to let him have these little pieces of her. So sometimes, before she goes to sleep, she’ll curl up in the kingsize bed she has all to herself and think about switching their roles.

When the fantasy is particularly vivid, Cuddy will reach up to tug on the slats of her headboard, checking their sturdiness. She’s convinced they can take the pressure of Wilson’s wrists writhing raw in the handcuffs she’ll use to immobilise his arms above his head, denying him the privilege of touching her. She'll leave him there for a while, she decides, because he’s so handsome like this, all naked and restrained; then, she'll stand before him and drink in the vision of his body, watching him avert his eyes and squirm beneath the weight of her leering gaze. Just for fun, she'll grin and slip her fingertip between her folds to graze her clit; it'll be _so_ satisfying to see his pupils smart with longing, his hand twitch, hinting at his wish that he could be the one to make her moan.

It's mean, but it's necessary. This is about reinforcing that Wilson doesn’t get to access her as he pleases.

He calls Cuddy by her first name, as she straddles his hips and takes his rigid, neglected cock into her glistening heat. He whimpers, whines, all cute and pathetic, his face speaking of a perfect juxtaposition of pleasure and misery. He knows well by now that his orgasm will be delayed until Cuddy permits it, but the cock ring around his shaft will more than help to take care of that.

Cuddy rides him with vehement gyrations of her hips, moaning curses amidst unsteady cries to let Wilson know how much she’s enjoying using his dick as if it were a plastic toy. He can only watch as she lets her hands loose over her own body. She strokes her bare breasts, tweaks her nipples between her fingers; she throws her hair out of her face like a stripper, before roaming her hand between her thighs to find her clit once more. She makes herself cum, once, twice, again, barely pausing to rest in between; she loves hearing him babble incoherent pleas as she tightens and pulses around him, as she dangles what he can’t have right in his face until he’s desperate and thrashing. 

Eventually, he arches his spine in anguish, helpless to his frenzy. He instantly looks contrite, brimming with regret; but Cuddy slaps the expression right off of his face anyway. “Don’t fucking _ do _ that.”

His lips start to quiver, his eyes losing their focus. “Lisa, please,” he gasps, trembling with the effort of obeying her command. “I can’t take it anymore.”

She shakes her head, erratic above him as climax nears again. “I don’t care. This is not about you.”

Cuddy continues to bring herself to orgasm over and over, delighting in Wilson’s relentless murmurs of tortured bliss. She ignores him, for the most part; when she feels like it, she tears at his chest with her fingernails, or calls him a whiny little bitch, knowing the scraps of attention will only add to his suffering. It’s fucked up, and it’s exhilarating, and it’s… well. It’s a damn good thing that it’s never going to happen.

When Cuddy has these fantasies one too many nights in a row, she can’t quite look Wilson in the eye. She can tell Wilson notices; his gaze will follow hers, as it strays to a crease in her skirt, or the knot in his tie - but it’s the one thing he never asks her about.


	3. Intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foreman/Wilson. Angst, hurt/comfort, fleeting references to hard drugs and non-graphic smut.

Foreman exits the hospital foyer exactly 16 hours after his working day began. He’s used to the dark serenity of midnight, the deserted parking lot; the wired nausea of bad coffee, the pitiful salary he’s awarded for the colossal amount he does. Still, he doesn’t _mean _to slam his car door behind him; he doesn’t like to shove his keys into the ignition quite so brutally. But his nerve endings are wound into tight coils and he’s tired. As much as he wishes that he too could just pop a Vicodin to make it all go away, he thinks bitterly as he starts his journey home, he’s a self-respecting adult with responsibilities. Besides, Foreman just doesn’t _do _things like that.

Foreman is stoic and dependable. When Cameron is gazing at House with her big moony eyes and Chase is babbling nonsense that sounds to Foreman’s ears like “look at me!”, it’s Foreman who wades through all the unrequited love and daddy issues to call House out on his shit. It’s Foreman who takes a breath for everyone, Foreman who guides their inane bickering back to medical discussions, Foreman who is the first to intervene when things get out of control. His shoulders are worn and creaking with the weight of all he carries, but he mustn’t so much as falter beneath it: because if Foreman breaks, the diagnostics department will fall to pieces.

As he drives, he reflects on the chaos he left behind at work until he can’t bear it anymore. He rediverts his mind. He’s getting good at zoning the fuck out.

Foreman has started to build rich inner worlds. In these fariytale universes, he attends the kind of parties he never gets invited to; gatherings of hundreds of people, with strippers and cocaine and extravagance and debauchery, pricey tequila scorching the back of his throat. When he tires of that fantasy, he finds himself in his apartment packing a suitcase instead; he leaves House a voicemail to say he won’t be coming back before he drives to the airport, jumping on the first flight to any European city he recognises. Ideally, he’d start in Venice, then work his way around the continent. He’s always wanted to go to Berlin...

The visions calm him. Make his neck a little looser. His eyes a little heavier.

Foreman winds down the window and turns up the volume on the radio, set to the classical music station he finds just grating enough to keep him awake. He begrudgingly switches the fantasies off, promising himself he can fully indulge when he gets home. For now, he searches his mind for slightly more benign topics.

His thoughts stray to Wilson. 

Foreman has been growing curious about Wilson. He never really formed an opinion on him before; the guy was universally termed as "very nice", but there didn't seem to be much else to him. Lately though, Foreman has been getting to know him better - as is inevitable, given that House so often insists on including his buddy in things that don’t even concern him - and something weird has happened. In Wilson, Foreman is starting to see hints of himself.

Wilson is stoic and dependable. He’s a friend to everyone, even those who don’t deserve it; and if his weird bromance with House is anything to go by, _especially _to those who don’t deserve it. It’s Wilson who yanks House back down to earth when he thinks he can get away with anything, it’s Wilson’s devotion to House’s well-being that keeps him in one piece, it’s only Wilson who can actually make House laugh. Wilson’s shoulders are worn and creaking with the weight of all he carries, but he mustn’t so much as falter beneath it; because if Wilson breaks, House will fall to pieces.

That’s a lot of responsibility.

Foreman doesn’t want to find Wilson so relatable. He doesn’t want to have to fight the urge to put his arms around him when he sees him marching around the corridors with that weary, frazzled look on his face. He certainly doesn’t want to enjoy simply looking at him quite so much.

There’s one fantasy lately that Foreman can’t just switch off. 

They would expect nothing of each other but raw sincerity, because in the image Foreman creates of Wilson’s bedroom, they’ve forged a space where it’s safe to strip off the armour of responsibility and exist as themselves. The expectations placed upon them outside wouldn’t exist; the misery of having to be more than enough would be safely banished. Foreman would kiss Wilson right on the bridge of his nose, in between two sad eyes, and Wilson would hiss quietly, like he was beginning to deflate. Offloading just a little of what he’d been holding.

Foreman would remove his own shirt first, letting Wilson know it was okay to need him; and Wilson would trust Foreman not to demand more than he could give as he let him take off his clothes. Foreman would handle Wilson like he was made of glass as he laid him down, wanting him to feel special and seen, just as he was. Wilson would fit perfectly between his thighs, and he would be gentle with Foreman the way the world has never been; and Foreman would clasp Wilson’s hands and kiss his moist throat, as they quietly enjoyed the freedom of vulnerability together.

But then again, Foreman reflects, who doesn’t want to bang Wilson? Who doesn’t want to go to wild parties with strippers and drugs and booze and revel in them with no consequences? Who doesn’t want to fuck off to Europe because they hate their boss and their life has turned out nothing like they imagined?

Who doesn’t want to catch a damn break?


	4. Therapy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> House/Chase and Chase/Wilson. BDSM, explicit sex and angst.

House’s first appearance in Chase’s fantasies brought him to an orgasm that left him rigid and whimpering, sheets binding his writhing thighs as he arched his spine like a cataleptic asylum patient. The subsequent afterglow was kind, bathing him in serenity and dissolving the shame he had every right to feel in fisting his cock to images of being fucked - no, _used _\- by his boss. He couldn’t picture sex with House as anything other than a quick, beautifully degrading encounter where he was bent over House’s desk, pants crudely clinging to one ankle, buttocks held open by House’s selfish hands as he slammed into Chase without a passing thought for his comfort. Chase would keep perfectly still, jamming his front teeth into his fist to quiet his moans, and House would gloat at how willing and obedient he was.

When such a version of House exists purely in Chase’s mind, Chase can make him do anything he wants. He soon decides that House calls him a whore as he fucks him like that, pushing his face into the polished wood and digging purple grooves into his ass with his fingernails. When House doesn’t feel like fucking him, he’ll make Chase stay behind after a differential and wrestle him up against the wall, smirking as he pins him there by the shoulders with his cane before demanding a blowjob. On the nights Chase finds orgasm particularly elusive, he’ll picture House sitting at his desk, arms folded, irises aflame, as Chase kneels before him and masturbates. He brings himself to the edge over and over, choking out pleas to cum, which House declines until tears leak from his eyes.

The problem is, Chase enjoys tenderness too. He wants his submission to be cherished. He likes approval, and he _loves_ praise. His mind has trouble with that narrative when it involves House; so sometimes, Chase lets his mind stray to another possibility. What if House occasionally shared him with Wilson?

Chase flattens a hand against the shower cubicle door to steady himself, the hot stream caressing his back as he gulps down his moans. Gripping his cock, clumsy and erratic, he imagines Wilson pushing his hair behind his ear, the warmth of his lips as they brush his cheek, his own wide, fearful eyes. House has left him in shreds, sore and used and broken. Wilson, though, is different. He’s careful with his toys.

“Was House mean to you, sweetheart?” he asks, in a tone that heavily suggests he knows the answer.

Chase nods, biting his lip. He enjoys playing the victim. Which suits Wilson just fine, because he loves having someone to take care of.

“You poor thing.” He gives a sympathetic murmur, stroking the side of Chase’s head with the pad of his thumb like he’s a treasured pet. “Don’t worry, I won’t be mean. I know you’ll be good for me.”

His faith lures a smile to Chase’s face. “I will,” he whispers eagerly.

Wilson treats him to another soft kiss, and it tingles electric against his skin. “Get on your knees for me, baby.” The command is gentle, affectionate. “You know what to do. And you’re _so_ _good_ at it...”

“_ Oh… _” Chase presses his forehead against the tiled wall, jamming his lips together to stifle his rasping breaths as he thrusts into his hand. He shouldn’t be doing this in the shower at work. He shouldn’t be doing this _ever_. But as addiction sets in - whether to a drug, a drink, or an activity - the sufferer’s frontal cortex is damaged, leading to poor decision making. It isn’t his fault. It’s a disease.

The fabric of his slacks is starting to wear away at the knees, so often does Chase find himself on the floor these days, but Wilson’s cock is so thick and comforting in his mouth that all he can do is close his eyes and devour him with the kind of fervour that House just doesn’t deserve. Wilson tells him what a pretty thing he is, how divine his mouth feels, that he’s such a _good boy,_ and as Chase sucks and bobs and moans, Wilson's breaths come thicker and faster with every exhale. He cups the back of Chase’s head and calls him his perfect little slut; he mumbles things that sound disjointed and wrong coming out of his mouth, things like “fuck, yes” and “keep going” as he thrusts helplessly into his throat. Chase gags, he whimpers, but he takes it, because Wilson makes him feel like a precious gift rather than a piece of meat; and as Wilson’s mouth opens wide and he erupts with ecstasy, Chase feels special and treasured and _proud_...

Chase’s efforts not to scream as he cums into his hand result in a mere broken whine, effectively stifled by the relentless pound of the shower. His knees buckle, his nerve endings alight with white heat, as he slumps against those cool, soothing tiles.

In the quiet, lonely aftermath, he holds his softening dick and draws a few deep breaths that rattle with guilt. He doesn’t want to mix Wilson up in all this, but sometimes he has to; because even in his fantasies, he can’t picture House as anything other than a bully, and Wilson as his bumbling mate who fruitlessly attempts to control the damage he does.


	5. Fidelity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stacy/Wilson. Angst and a brief reference to domestic violence.

People tread so lightly around Stacy that they barely make a sound.

She’s earned that privilege. She’s tolerated the condescending gaze of many a well-dressed, distinguished idiot, smug in the knowledge that she’ll soon hand them their butts on china plates with trimmings. She uses the most abstract legal loopholes she can find to save asses that objectively do not deserve to be saved, just to prove that she can. She has the reputation she deserves, and she’s proud of it. Nobody fucks with Stacy; that’s widely understood, and universally obeyed.

Greg always loved a challenge.

She tells James this over dinner, holding an untouched glass of chardonnay to her cheek. It’s the same restaurant they always go to, the Greek place just out of town where they have no chance of being interrupted by anyone they know. Stacy isn’t here to talk about Greg; she’s here because her husband is sick and she needs to test some very muddied waters, and James will know better than anyone if she has any hope of getting Greg to take Mark’s case. But she’s long since veered off of that topic, and James hasn’t tried to guide her back.

Their mains arrive, and they ignore them, as Stacy relays how Mark lured her with the calming scents of stability. He’s been true to his word throughout their marriage; she can predict the even keel of his moods, rely on him to take care of himself. If he suggests a vacation, she’ll know it’s because he’s overheard her talking with a friend about somewhere she wants to visit, and he’ll book it without suggesting a destination of his own. It’s safe, and it’s solid, and it can be a little mundane; but after Greg, it's exactly what she needs.

James listens with his arms crossed on the table, nodding occasionally as Stacy tells him the same things he’s heard a thousand times before; how loving Greg was wild. His very presence was an adventure, and the highs were so dizzyingly _good _that she still pines for the thrill years later; but the _lows,_ oh, how they left her threadbare and broken, and Greg distant and confused. If she hadn’t walked away when she did, they would have destroyed each other.

It’s not nearly so dramatic with Mark. Their arguments, Stacy continues, are stupid and brimming with muted resentment; the most recent one was an inappropriately heated back and forth over whether the song on the radio was by Journey or Boston, a fight she only picked in the first place for a slither of Mark's increasingly dim attention. With Greg, she didn’t need to manufacture things to fight over; they had a host of choices, from Greg’s selfishness all the way up to her refusal to take his shit. Conflicts escalated into frenzied hazes of scarlet cheeks, snarling, spitting mouths, cutting personal attacks screamed over the din of shattering crockery. There's one detail Stacy always omits; how once, her fury drove her to slam her clenched fists repeatedly into Greg’s shoulders, only stopping her assault when she caught the dazed look of terror on his face as he stumbled into the kitchen wall. She doesn’t think she’ll ever forgive herself for that.

And _God,_ she tells James, _don’t even get me started on the sex._ Greg fucked like he solved cases, hyperfocused on the task, and Stacy would lose herself in the intensity of it; roaring and zealous and giddying though it was, he still felt somehow detached and untouchable. Afterwards, (and only sometimes), Greg would let Stacy wear his Led Zeppelin t-shirt as they fell asleep, and she'd hate taking it off in the morning, wanting to hold on to any part of him he seemed to feel able to share.

And Mark… well. In the beginning, they made love every night, and whilst he never quite had Greg’s skill, he more than made up for it in sweet words and leisurely caresses. Stacy felt seen, needed. These days, however, Mark is rarely interested, and Stacy finds herself seizing the moments when he is with the eagerness of a golden retriever; but it’s just so different now. They don’t turn on the lights. They rarely strip completely naked. They just get it over with. They're merely satisfying a need; it's the marital sex equivalent of quickly grabbing a bag of chips to soothe hunger pangs on a busy day...

“... so sometimes,” Stacy concludes, staring at a tightly rolled napkin, “I wonder what it’d be like to have an affair.”

She can feel the shift in James’ demeanour. Every grain of his being seems to beg, _please don’t share this with me. _

Aloud, he clears his throat. “Are you sure coming back is such a good idea?”

Stacy ponders the implications of that question. She knows exactly what he means: _are you sure you’re not gonna jump House the moment you see him? _Although, she really can't tell if he’s picked up on what she believed to be the very clear hint in her statement: _Sometimes, James, I can't help but wonder what it’d be like to sleep with you._

James’ cell rings. He fishes it out of his pocket, and it doesn't escape her notice that his eyes glint with relief. “I gotta take this. Do you mind?”

She shakes her head. “Not at all.”

James throws her an apologetic smile before getting up a little too quickly and heading outside. 

Not that she can blame him; Stacy watches her lamb kofta get cold, as she realises her appetite has entirely deserted her. Instead, she feels a little nauseous, a little disgusted with herself. She never meant to hurt Greg, and she knows he never meant to hurt her either, even if he never told her so the way she tearfully insisted it to him; but really, screwing James? Even _thinking_ about it is an unforgivable betrayal.

James, with all his tireless caring and unsolicited advice. James, who dropped everything to meet her here tonight, because that’s the kind of friend he is. James, an anchor, a man she can never have.

James, who Stacy can’t stop picturing kissing away her tears as he makes love to her the way Mark never wants to, and Greg never could.


	6. Eternal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> House/Wilson. Overall fluffy smut, but there are brief references to past abuse.

House is the first to admit that he has some pretty messed up fantasies involving the people he knows. But the ones he has about Wilson are disgusting.

Even as Wilson slides a bare leg over his hip, drawing House’s ass into his groin as his mouth trails featherlight kisses down the back of his neck, the dream Wilson’s attentions gently woke him from is ripe and fresh in his mind. They were somewhere in the south - maybe Mississippi, though his subconscious wasn’t specific - roaring down rolling stretches of open road on House’s motorbike. Wilson was perched behind him, arms clinging to his waist, chin resting on his shoulder, and he can still feel the tranquility of it, the simple joy of being so close to him. As pleasant as it was, House can't help but think it'd all be a little less jarring if Dream Wilson had at least gotten a boner from the bumpy roads and the inevitable friction. Then again, he reasons, getting to bang Wilson in real life kind of negates the need for his mind to spout filth about him.

Not that it ever really did before all this started.

House lets the dream fade away; no point in clinging onto it. Especially when Real Life Wilson _does_ have a pretty insistent boner, unlike his imaginary counterpart. House can feel it digging into the small of his back, and he jabs a lazy, sleepy hand behind him, reaching for any part of Wilson he can touch, as his friend/lover/whatever-the-hell-he-is-now skims his fingertips over his bicep. It’s not an erogenous zone, not even slightly, but House shudders with longing, because that’s just the effect Wilson has. 

_Bastard._

Perhaps it would be easier if these bizarre mental images only came to him in dreams; it's not like House can control his subconscious, (and that kinda pisses him off). But the problem is, his waking hours are plagued with the same thing; and when he's alone, he allows himself to fully indulge in their rich imagery. Sometimes, he'll sit in his office chair, idly bouncing a ball against the floor as he drifts away to the hospital rooftop. It’s late evening, and the skies before them are a chaotic canvas of purples and yellows and pinks. They're resting open beers on their laps, and House watches the last dregs of sunlight wither as he shows Wilson all the dusty bones in his proverbial closet. He shrugs as he explains that his brain won’t let him remember large portions of his childhood. He even shares that Stacy hit him once, and he should have left, but he didn't. Wilson listens; he holds House's hand, before promising with shining eyes that he'll treat him so much better than that, because he never deserved all that pain. House will scoff a little at this, because it would be weird not to; but secretly, he'll dare to believe it.

In the present, hands roam across naked torsos, hips moving in unison to create a divine trapping of friction around stiff cocks. They kiss with a lazy sort of fervour, revelling in the unique joy of Sunday morning. There's nowhere to go. No one to be.

Wilson’s jagged breaths rasp into his throat, and House moans quietly in response, tilting his head back with lidded eyes as Wilson’s lips trail downwards to his chin. He nips along his jaw, humming affectionately when House grabs at his ass with an impatient, needy hand. 

Wilson's fingertips graze one of his nipples. “I love having you all to myself,” he murmurs, his sentimental bullcrap vibrating pleasantly against House’s face. “Want to make love to you...”

“God, you’re such a _sleaze_,” House complains, eyes falling closed as Wilson’s skilled tongue laps at his earlobe. “Who says things like that outside of movies?”

Wilson chuckles knowingly. “I don't exactly hear you turning me down.”

“When do I ever turn down sex?” House retorts, letting Wilson grip the back of his neck and draw him in for another deep, fervent kiss.

God, he loves kissing Wilson. House has never been particularly affectionate; he's always preferred to shun cuddles and hair petting and back rubs, because they’ve always felt like grand, empty gestures. With Wilson, though, just like everything else, it’s different. So different, in fact, that sometimes when House is following him around the hospital halls, he has to fight with himself not to touch the back of Wilson's arm; though admittedly, the thought of watching fascinated, shocked faces pop up all around them is a satisfying mental image. Besides, realistically, how much longer can they keep this a secret? Weeks have become months, and House hasn’t slept at his own apartment for the past eight days. He doesn't really need to; most of his things are at Wilson's now.

If his icky fantasies weren’t proof enough that he’s completely and stupidly in love with Wilson, that cements it.

House's cheek is pressed into the pillow he grips at either end, his mouth twisting around curses and moans as Wilson clutches his hips and thrusts deep into his ass. It’s so _good_, too good, when Wilson fucks him from behind like this; when their balls slap and graze with each forward movement, when his knees grate so deliciously against the sheets. He can't see Wilson's face, but House is so familiar with every sexual idiosyncrasy of his now that he can picture the outward curl of Wilson's upper lip, his pupils blown wide and dark like little black moons, his jaw quivering with every fractured gasp and groan he releases. He's as vulnerable and raw as he can be without actually looking House in the eye.

Now, there's a point.

Over the past eight days, House has come _this_ close to expressing something to Wilson that he's only ever said aloud to Stacy. Something he swore he'd never utter to another person again when she left; something that, in sharp contradiction, he's been dying to tell Wilson since he first saw him mooning around that bar in New Orleans. It's a tremendous understatement, to say that it takes House a while to open up, if he does at all - but surely, over a decade is a new record of emotional procrastination? It's that weak old excuse: there's just never been a good _time_.

Still, he reasons, is now not as good a time as any, while Wilson is horny and wild and making him feel so incredible? It's not like House is being particularly shy about much else at present. Wilson can probably see right inside his asscrack, for fuck's sake.

He has to cling to these bursts of courage.

“Wilson,” he gasps, “I…”

“Yeah, that’s it.” Wilson sighs, running a flattened palm over the curve of his ass. “I love it when you moan my name.”

House growls into the pillow. Narcissistic dick. 

“Never mind,” he says, impressing himself with his own ability to sound so petulant whilst being fucked senseless.

Senseless, he figures, is a pretty pertinent term. His faculties are clearly not intact when even now - even when he’s thinking what an insufferable idiot Wilson is, even if he’s an insufferable idiot who fucks like he’s got a gun to his head - his mind is straying to thoughts of surprising Wilson at one of Cuddy’s stupid benefit dinners. In this fantasy, some bozo from a drug company that is probably up to no good is giving a dire speech, and no one is really listening. House is grinning smugly, ready to take the entire room's attention captive.

_"James Wilson," he pictures himself saying, as he drops to one knee in front of his baffled boyfriend. "Will you make me the most miserable man alive by agreeing to lecture me on crap I don't care about for the rest of eternity?"_ Just for shits and giggles, he thinks, he might even get Chase to hijack the soundsystem to play Leave a Tender Moment Alone by Billy Joel. Heh.

House grunts in surprise as Wilson slides his arms around his waist, raising his torso off the bed. As his motion drives his cock deeper into his electrified body, House hisses at the sensation, head lolling back helplessly against Wilson’s shoulder.

“Are you,” he pants, "_trying_ to fucking kill me?"

Wilson just kisses his cheek. He jolts his hips in a lazy half-thrust, before halting completely. “Why’d you say ‘never mind’?” He sounds slightly breathless. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing,” House growls, irritated by the interruption. He tries to slide up on Wilson’s cock, to fuck himself if Wilson _won't_, but the angle makes it impossible. “Can’t fuck and talk at the same time.”

Wilson laughs quietly, giving House’s waist an affectionate squeeze. “I think the fact that dirty talk is a thing disproves that. Come on, out with it.”

House tuts, exhales; he ignores Wilson and reaches for his own cock, rigid and bobbing and aching, the slit dribbling precum over the hairs on his abdomen. Wilson quickly intercepts the movement, grabbing both of House's wrists. He wrestles them together before pinning them against his chest. 

House gives a wordless snarl in response, struggling half-heartedly. Wilson just laughs, quiet, victorious; his breath grazing the back of House's neck.

“Let me go, you dick. I did _not _sign up for blue balls.”

"I didn't sign up for fart jokes during sex either, but you still make them." Wilson gives a quick, barely detectable jerk of his hips, but it’s enough for House to choke on his breath; enough to evoke an involuntary whimper from his throat. "What were you gonna say?"

"Moment's passed." House huffs, jerking his shoulders in Wilson's grip; he holds fast.

He drops his head, letting his bony chin dig into House's shoulder. Great. He's evoked Thoughtful Wilson. He throws his eyes to the ceiling, wondering if he's just managed to cockblock himself. Who knew that was even a thing?

The grip on his wrists loosens, and House feels the vibration of Wilson's throat as he swallows. "Were you... uh... gonna ask to move in with me?"

Aha. Way off the scent.

"I kinda already moved in," he says, somehow sounding a lot less flippant than he'd originally intended. "Was hoping you wouldn't notice. Also, seriously? Who screams "let's get that nice Ikea sofa, baby!" in the throes of passion?"

Wilson gives a slow nod, that chin grating annoyingly around the flimsy skin of his clavicle. "Right. I think we should..."

House interrupts him with a gyration of his hips, a slow, circular motion that makes Wilson shudder. "You think we should get back to fucking? Oh, Wilson, we're _so _in sync."

"_House_."

Wilson gives that annoying exhale through his nose, the one he probably thinks makes him sound as though he's being heroically patient. House thinks it makes him sound like a snorting horse. Or maybe a backfiring tractor...

"You love me, don't you?"

Oh. Well. Right.

Still, House would stand up in court and swear on whatever religious text they thrust in front of him that he feels Wilson's dick twitch a little inside him as he speaks. How infuriatingly typical for Wilson to get some kind of sexual jolly out of this. At both the thought, and the need to save face, House clicks his tongue and jerks his shoulder, effectively displacing Wilson's chin. He lowers his eyes to the pillow he held just moments before, knocked out of shape from his kneading fingers and thrashing head. 

Wilson's patience is a glaring presence in the silence that follows; it gives House just enough space to reflect that maybe he's being a dick, leaving Wilson hanging like a tit in the breeze like this. But the thing is, Wilson lives with it - because he _knows_ that House is a dick. And whilst he minds - he minds very much, sometimes - it seems as though nothing House does will push him away.

He's so annoying.

Still, the thought is motivation enough for House to remain planted in Wilson's grip, a willing hostage. When he speaks again, his voice emerges almost petulant, a little hoarse: “Is that going to be a problem?”

Wilson releases one wrist, prodding a finger against House's chin. He allows Wilson to lift his head, turn it awkwardly so they're almost facing each other; but mostly, the motion just squishes their cheeks together. House can, however, see Wilson grinning. He looks a little manic, a little elated; but mostly, he thinks, relieved. "You're an idiot."

House is about to retort that Wilson is a coward for not immediately saying it back, but his words halt on his tongue as Wilson covers his mouth with his own. He submits to the kiss that follows, lacking the slurping lips and ferocious tongues and playful nibbles of earlier; it's a kiss that tells him, _I'd love to ride through Mississippi on a motorbike with you, even though it'll mess up my hair; sure, we can watch the sunset from the roof, but I'm bringing us jackets in case it gets cold; oh yeah, you should definitely propose to me during a drug company speech, that'd be hilarious..._

Okay, the last one might be jumping the gun slightly. Nobody likes a bunny boiler.

Wilson holds his eyes closed against House's lips, like some heartthrob from a movie. He looks dumb, and endearing. "I love you too, by the way," he says quietly, his faraway smile spreading to House's face. "As if that isn't glaringly obvious to anyone who's known us for five minutes."

"People talk," House murmurs. His lips brush Wilson's as he speaks, and it feels so good he can barely stand it.

"Yeah," Wilson agrees with a sigh. "They always will."

"Fuck 'em."

Another silence settles over them, broken only by the sound of mouths meeting for lazy, barely-there kisses; House can hear the soft whisper of Wilson's fingers against his stubble as he strokes his face, and the tenderness of the gesture makes him long to lie in Wilson's arms like this forever.

Eww. Gross.

Would be nice, though.

House draws out of the kiss with at least a smidgen of reluctance, but Wilson is still snugly pressed inside of him, and the last thing he needs is for his sappy lover to become so overwhelmed by emotion that he can't finish what he started.

"Glad we had this talk," he says, in a voice that sounds, to his ears anyway, reassuringly more like his sardonic own. When he wiggles the wrist that remains in Wilson’s now very soft grip, Wilson releases him without protest. “Now make love to me, as you so creepily put it, or I will seriously go home.”

Wilson's arms return to their previous position around House’s waist. “But you _are_ home.”

As Wilson resumes his thrusts as if he hadn't said a word, House closes his eyes with a show of passionate abandon to hide the way they glisten with emotion. Amidst all of it, he's bothered by a new thought: what exactly does Wilson fantasise about?


End file.
